


the shape that i'm in now, your shape in the doorway

by cersc



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, Insomnia, Internal Monologue, Pining, Post-Battle, Prompt Fill, Relationship Study, Season/Series 08, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Wishful Thinking, show canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 16:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20429252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cersc/pseuds/cersc
Summary: "Jaime is in Winterfell… thinking of Cersei." some good ol' bittersweet show-canon angst for my main bitches @ cl





	the shape that i'm in now, your shape in the doorway

hot spring water piped through the walls of winterfell hardly makes the place any less cold.

beneath layers of furs and thick, downy quilts, the prickly chill raises gooseflesh on jaime’s forearms. he rubs the right one with his good hand, willing his blood to course hotter and faster through his veins.

there is little which drives his heart to pumping here.

_there is in king’s landing_, he stops himself from thinking.

the long night, they call it — the battle for the dawn. _more of a tedious evening_. once, he recalls, the only two places he truly felt alive were on the battlefield and in bed with cersei. somewhere along the way, that changed. the battle had raised his blood as much as it would any man who picked up a sword and swung it for his life, but there had been no fire in his veins, no thrill in the victory.

_perhaps it is age_, he considers, chuckling softly, bitterly as he thinks of the icy silver sprouting through the hair at his temples. once, he recalls, he thought he would be dead by now. such was the expectation of many young knights. he does not know whether to be impressed with himself for evading it, or disappointed. _perhaps my view of the world has grown as dulled at the edges as i have. _

_or perhaps it’s only that i’ve lost my bloody sword hand — seems that may have something to do with it._

in any case, discovering the cause of its disappearance will hardly bring it back. jaime yawns and rolls onto his other side, pulling the furs tighter ‘round his shoulders in an attempt to find comfort, that sweet, elusive maiden whose absence keeps him awake through the hours.

_no, comfort’s not her name_, he stops himself from thinking.

it feels as if he would summon her somehow if he _did_ think her name, like some children’s tale of a monster or a ghost. he has wondered about both, in truth — if she has become as beastly and ferocious as the creature on their sigil, all teeth and claws and sinew; if she has drifted so far from him, her presence has become spectral.

but then, after a fashion, they have never been closer. their minds, in any case. she knew with certainty that he would ask her to do the right thing, and he knew with certainty that she would not (though after being so underwhelmed by the long bloody night, he wonders if she did not choose wisely after all). he knew that she would receive his query in a manner described generously as frosty, and she knew that he would forge his own path upon her refusal. and they each _knew_ that the other must know it — yet made their choices, all the same.

it is as if they preordain each other’s paths. it is as if they always have, from the time they huddled together in their mother’s womb until the present moment, when they have never been farther apart.

a sudden chill sends a shiver up jaime’s spine. the nape of his neck tingles. he turns over again, restless.

_i wonder if thinking her name _would_ summon her somehow_, he stops himself from thinking.

because if it would — oh, at least it might not be so cold. even if her wrath has simmered no lower, it would certainly bring some heat into this dismal, comfortless bedchamber. she would unsheath that fine valyrian-steel blade of a tongue and wield it skillfully as ever, and he would parry each verbal blow, and neither of them would tire until long into the night. they have spent many nights like that. he tends to sleep well the night after — as if it saps more energy from him than any training, any battle, any war ever could.

and if her anger _had_ dissipated — if he was incredibly, unspeakably lucky, and it had — they might work out their frustrations in a manner they have spent an equal number of nights locked into as the former. he might feel those claws leaving raw, red scratches down his back; she might feel his teeth mark her skin. he might fuck her so hard neither of them could walk the next day, for the soreness of his thighs and that of her cunt.

or she might ride him, might wrap her own thighs ‘round his waist and flip him on his back with that sharp, surprising strength she hides until the moment it is needed. she might take her pleasure from him like a lioness takes her prey, might hold him down and not stop until he saw brilliant white-hot stars.

and perhaps in the golden haze that came after, that always _has_ come after, they would connect again — more than just their fates. she might fit into place against him to sleep like two pieces of a child’s puzzle, and might remember how well other parts of her fit against him — her heart, her very soul.

she might tell him she loves him. he closes his eyes, imagines the words in her sweet, poison voice. _i love you, jaime_.

_i love you too, cersei._

he stops himself from thinking again.


End file.
